


I Prefer "Misappropriated."

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And Azazel is just a little shit, In which Dean is a stubborn little shit, Kidnapping, M/M, Robbery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Infamous thief, Dean Singer has decided to steal from the local lawyer- Azazel Lehne. He didn't exactly expect to find the boy that had been missing for two years from three states over strapped to a table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Shit My Job Gets Me Into

Dean was born on a dreary January afternoon in the approximate middle-of-fucking-nowhere-Kansas.

His dad had decided to pack up and leave him with his drunken mother about four days after being born. His mother had decided to take a bath with a hairdryer a week after that.

So, raising the newborn fell onto his uncle, Bobby Singer.

The child was taken to the Singer's auto-shop every day, instead of the unaffordable daycare center down the road. From the age of three Dean knew the different sizes of wrench and 'helped' fixing cars however he could. Hell, one of his first words had been 'bumper.'

As he entered elementary school, he maintained a steady A-B average,  mathematics coming easily, despite constantly bickering with his English teacher over the actuality of the words 'ain't' and 'idjit.' The only times he'd been sent to the office was after kicking a boy in the grade above him for insulting AC/DC, and for breaking another boy's nose when he called Bobby a fake father.

Bobby was quite proud on both occasions and later took him out for ice cream.

He dropped out of school the third day of his junior year to help Bobby at his auto shop without complaint, and stood by his uncle as he was diagnosed with Tuberculosis.

And last year he held his makeshift-father's hand when half-way through what would've been his senior year, the man passed away.

"I fucking hate Tuesdays." He snarled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he slammed the front door. He let his back hit the wood, sliding down to the floor with a grumble as he sniffed, glaring at a photo on the opposite wall.

"Dean?" The ridiculous accent called from upstairs. "You're home early today."

"No shit." The brunette ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, voice cracking. "Bobby, uh,-... 's been a year today."

A brief moment of silence followed. Then a pair of steps shuffled down the staircase, and the black haired man stuck his head around the corner with a concerned look. "You moved into his old office?"

Dean choked back another sob, covering his face with his hand.

Crowley sighed. "He, ah," he emerged fully, walking to stand beside Dean on the floor. "He had a good year."

He nodded, glancing back up at the college student that rented the extra room. "Longer than they thought he'd go."

"He always was a bit bull-headed."

"A bit?"

"A lot." Crowley chuckled. "Listen, you know I'm not good with all this... _Emotion,_ junk, so, am I supposed to offer you dinner, or...?"

"Nah." Dean stood, clearing his throat. "I'm gonna go out and make some calls. Some fuck-ups at the shop forgot to order a new shipment of oil."

He nodded, ruffling Dean's hair. "Well, bring back dinner then."

Crowley shuffled back up the stairs, chuckling at Dean's offended shouts, containing vast quantities of profanities insulting the British and 'that's NOT how we grieve in the states!'

Dean huffed, walking into the kitchen and grabbing an apple before swinging back out the front door. He quietly checked his pocket for his revolver and ammo as he slid into the Impala, thinking to himself about how he was going to crack the lock on Mr. Lehne's house.

 

It was three stories, not including the basement, and had as many locks on the main entrance. His best bet would be to check the back entrance and jump the wired fence- and just sprint past the rottweiler. _Shit,_ he was fucked. The windows were sealed tightly, and breaking them was a very bad idea- he probably had some sort of security system to alert him of breaks. But, his lock-picking should get him past the door.

Dean put the car in park about fifty yards from the house in an empty lot. He hopped out of the car and twirled the gun around his finger, noting the weight of the lock pick in his pocket. He smirked at the neighbors chihuahua yapping at him as he walked past, and leaned back on his heels when faced with the iron gate. He easily picked the padlock and walked  around to the back of the house, eyes searching for one hundred forty  pounds of muscle charging him.

' _Can't believe he named the damn thing Meg,_ ' Dean snorted, shaking his head at the idiocy of the name. He stuck out his tongue when he spotted it, chained to its house on the opposite side of the yard. ' _ **Really** useful there_.'

He stood on the steps of the back porch, eyeing the Euro lock topped by an old-fashioned skeleton lock. He picked the first with ease, but felt someone perplexed at the difficulty of the second as he nearly broke one of the tumblers. With a click, he grinned and swung the door open.

Dean strode inside, taking a deep breath of the clean smell with underlying tones of, for whatever reason, sulfur. He decided not to question it. Moving quickly, he slid upstairs, snatching assorted pieces of artwork and jewelry from dressers and walls throughout the floor. Satisfied, he headed back downstairs and decided to skip the third floor, opting for the basement instead.

As he pulled open the heavy and, for whatever weird-ass reason, steel bolted door, a wave of scents hit him.

Sweat.

Bleach.

Cheap cologne.

Blood.

He choked, staggering backwards and leaning on the door frame as he coughed. He shook his head and tried to blink the water from his eyes. Glancing back up at the room, he realized he couldn't see a damn thing- so he fumbled around with the light switch for a moment before the bulbs brightened.

He almost wished he hadn't

"Holy shit," he muttered, staring at an assortment of bloodied knives on a tray. His eyes searched the room, scanning over gags and ropes, as well as a few sets of handcuffs.

Dean's low whistle echoed throughout the room, walking past a weird doll that had been dressed up-

"Holy _shit._ " He jumped backwards, hand slamming onto the tray behind him when he realized that wasn't a doll it was a fu _cking kid that was bleeding and_ -

The boy blinked back at him, bandanna shoved in his mouth as he calmly regarded the strange man hyperventilating a few feet away.


	2. The Shit My Conscience Gets Me Into

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley realizes he moved in with a fucking moron.

Dean and the boy stared at each other for what felt like hours; the boy with a curious expression, Dean with something akin to revulsion. The boy was wearing only a set of boxers, bruises covering his torso and neck, as well as lacerations.

The older male wheezed slightly, regaining his composure and swiping a hand through his hair. "Shit, shit, shit, _ah, **shit**_ , uh," he flailed slightly. "Okay, I can deal with this."

He stepped over another pile of ropes to stand beside the table. "I, uh, don't worry kid, just- shit. Probably ought to take out the gag, eh?"

He pulled the bandanna from the boys mouth, watching as he moved his jaw from side to side. The boy looked up at Dean with bright hazel eyes, despite one being slightly swollen. Shaggy brown hair fell neatly around his ears. He looked to be debating between screaming and laughing. "You," his voice cracked, "You're not one of Azazel's friends, are you?"

"Oh, fuck no," he snorted, going to grab a knife off of another table, " _Mr. Lehne_ 's batshit crazy."

The boy nodded. "I'm Sam. Sam Winchester."

"The name's Bond. James-" Dean paused, midway through cutting his left hand free. "Wait, _Winchester?_ "

"Mmhmm." Sam raised an eyebrow. "You don't strike me as a James kind of guy-"

"The kid from fucking _Nevada?_ " He asked incredulously. "That went missing in, like, 2011?"

"Holy shit."

"You say shit a lot."

"Don't swear, kid, it ain't nice." Dean muttered, cutting the remaining ropes. "You, uh, have any idea what day it is?"

"No."

"Month?"

"Nope."

"Year?"

"Uh, 2013?" Sam shrugged, rubbing his wrists. "Can I get your real name now?"

Dean rubbed his face, desperately hoping to wake up. "It's, uh, December 20th."

"Oh, alright."

"Of 2014."

Sam's head shot around to look at him. _"I'm fifteen?"_

Dean threw up his arms. "I don't know! I'm from a different fucking state, I didn't pay much attention!"

He groaned, flopping back onto the table. "I'm three grades behind. I'm going to be able to get drunk before I graduate high school. This is just great. Peachy. Really."

"Do you want me to get you out of here or what?"

" _Yes_ ," Sam sat back up, eyes wide. "Please don't leave me here."

Dean nodded, eyeing the wounds on the boys body. "Did- did he...?"

Breaking eye contact, Sam rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. "Yeah."

Dean sighed, dropping the knife back onto the tray. He offered Sam a hand, helping him to stand up, before the younger male collapsed with a gasp.

He hissed, gripping Deans shoulder tightly as he stood up again. " _Fuck,_ I don't think I can walk yet."

"I'm not carrying your ass out of here. And what did I say about swearing?"

"Hungry Hungry Hypocrite." Sam snapped. "I still don't know your name."

"Dean. Dean Singer." He muttered, letting the boy sit back down on the table for a moment. "How did Azazel get you, anyway?"

Sam glanced up at him. "Carry me and I'll tell you."

"I ain't gonna be graceful about it."

"Should I care?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "The amount of sass I'm getting from a fifteen year old that was strapped to a table two minutes ago is astounding."

Sam shrugged.

Dean sighed, gripping his waist before throwing the (loudly objecting) teen over his shoulder. "M'kay."

"This is _not_ what I meant!"

"Shoulda specified."

Dean walked back up the staircase to the main floor with the half-naked teen on his shoulder. "Do you, uh, have any clothes?"

"Don't you think I would've mentioned them?"

"Watch the sass."

"Watch your step." Sam snickered as Dean stumbled on the corner of a rug. "But no, I don't know what Azazel did with them. They probably wouldn't fit me, anyway."

He nodded. "I'll get Crowley to give you something back at my place. He fixes my shit all the time."

Sam hummed an affirmative, resting his chin on the palm of his hand and his elbow on the crook of Dean's spine. "It's actually kind of comfy up here."

"Yeah, don't get used to it." Dean huffed, opening the back door and acknowledging the barking Meg. "Now, spill."

"I come from a dysfunctional family."

"Details."

"Mom's dead, dad tried to ditch me in a park, foster home's custody battle's etc.," Sam drawled, waving to the rottweiler as the passed. "So, I ran away. I was doing pretty well, for about a week- I was trying to make it to Vegas, hitch-hiking,"

"Real smart, kid."

"Shush." He rolled his eyes as Dean carried him down the road, smiling at a couple walking past as they stared. "But I got in the wrong car. Wouldn't let me out. And boom, I'm locked in a basement in hicksville."

"You're rude, you know that?"

"And you were doing what, exactly, in his house?"

Dean went silent as they approached the car.

"Thought so," Sam snorted as Dean opened the passenger side door. "But he deserves it."

"Damn straight, he does." He walked around the hood of the car rubbing his temples as he slid into his seat and started the engine. "My housemate is, uh, very," Dean paused, "British."

"So, don't mention tea in the harbor?"

"Don't try to sass him."

 

_"I **told** you to bring back **dinner** , **not a fucking kid!** "_

"Well, what was I supposed to do, leave him there?"

" _ **YES,** and call the **police** , you imbecile! _What in _god's name_ were you even _doing_ there?!"

"..."

_"_ Oh, _no. **No** , tell me _you _weren't! I thought you'd gotten **OVER** that! Damn _ it _, Dean,_ you have _got_ to be the _most unfortunate_ soul I've _ever_ met! You're a _**fucking** charity case! _ You go to _rob_ a _house,_ that's strike _one._ You _SEE_ a kid _ **strapped** to a bloody  **fucking table** , _and _bam, that's strike two,_ just fucking _getting involved,-"_

"Hey, he would've _died_ there-"

" ** _Don't. Interrupt me._** "

"..."

"Finally, you _take_ the kid. You fucking _steal a stolen kid_. **_AND_** , to top it off, you _bring him back_ here and _get **me** involved_. _God **damn** it_ , Dean, this is **_your_** bullshit, not mine."

Sam quietly drank his juice box on the couch, all 5'9 of him scrawny, shirtless, and battered in his reflection on the powerless tv.

"Listen, we've got to help him, at least-"

" _Oh, no_. **_WE_** don't _have_ to help him. ** _I_** sure as hell _don't have to do a fucking thing._ "

"Are you going to help, or not?"

"..."

Sam glanced at the kitchen doorway where Crowley had Dean bent backwards over a table. The younger's back was flat against the wood, his feet barely flat on the ground with the other man fisting his shirt.

Crowley was a mess.

He'd been sitting on the couch, worrying over his friend's rough day. The brunette had decided to make himself a glass of tea and put on a pot of coffee for Dean- black, the way he liked, and had even put a batch of cookies in the oven with full thoughts of Dean coming back without dinner and a total wreck.

He'd been less that enthusiastic when Dean came home with a kidnapped child and stolen goods. As a matter of fact, the cookies were burning, the glass of tea had been knocked over, and the coffee pot was now labeled a highly dangerous projectile in Dean's memory.

Crowley dropped Dean, stepping backwards and running a hand through loose curls. "I'm going to bloody kill you. And yeah, I mean bloody in both ways."

Dean swallowed.

"Get in here, brat."

"... He can't walk."

Crowley shot Dean a venomous look as he walked into the living room. He turned to Sam.

Who sipped his juice box and stared at the mans well-polished shoes.

"Well," Crowley forced a smile, "Though this isn't an _ideal_ situation for any of us, I suppose we'll make the best of it. I'm Fergus MacLeod. Call me Crowley."

"It took two year for you to tell me your real name was Fergus."

"He seems to be of higher intellect." He snapped back. Composing himself, Crowley took a deep breath and looked back at Sam. "May I have your name?"

"Samuel Winchester."

" ** _NEVADA._** " Crowley hissed, whirling on Dean. " _You neglected to mention this boy has been missing for **three years**_."

Dean shrugged, chuckling nervously.

Crowley bit his tongue, reminding himself murder was a sin. "I'll get him clothes. Don't let him out of your sight."

He nodded, sitting beside Sam on the couch as Crowley stormed back upstairs.

"Well," Dean muttered, leaning back. "He actually took that better than I expected."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day. That's about as good as it gets. Be proud.
> 
> Thanks to Dani for the comment!~


	3. The Shit This Kid Gets Me Into

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam's not okay and Crowley has to fix it.

Sam sat on the couch beside Dean, hearing loud classical music blaring from upstairs that accompanied loud clatters. "So, is he normally this angry? Or is it just a 'me' thing?"

"Nah. He's usually pretty calm." He sighed. "He's a bit upset I brought a trauma kid home."

Sam nodded, glancing outside to see gathering clouds. "Is it supposed to rain?"

"You've been locked in a room for three years and your concerned about the weather?"

Sam laughed, glancing at Dean. "Yeah, I guess so. Azazel is usually grumbling about politics and shit, so I think I'm up to date."

"You were a year behind."

"Up to date, not on the date."

"How the hell are you so okay with this?" Dean turned to face the boy, eyebrows raised. "Is it Stockholm Syndrome or something? Because you're kinda frustrating me."

"I'm being frustrating by being normal?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Well," Sam rested his hands behind his head. "Might just be a coping thing. I mean, I guess I'm just glad to get out of there. If you were Azazel walking through the door, I'd probably flip shit."

"But, I watch Oprah and Dr. Oz and shit. You should be shaking and sobbing on the floor."

Sam shrugged again.

A door opened upstairs as a piece by Bach started, and Crowley shuffled down the stairs, carrying a full suit.

Dean rubbed his forehead. "Crowley, it's, like, 6:30. The kid needs a shower, then sleep. We're not visiting the queen."

"We're taking this boy out to get a proper meal." Crowley muttered. "My treat. He's been through enough."

"Well, damn, thanks-"

"You're paying for yourself, jackass."

 

As Dean drove south with Crowley riding shotgun, Sam constantly chirped from the backseat.

"Hey, what am I gonna do about school? Am I gonna go home? Because, seriously, I'm three years behind. I really need to catch up. Well, I mean, I guess I was a year ahead so now I'm only two years behind, but still. Can I get a phone call? Not like this is a hostage situation or anything, but it kind of is. Who's this on the radio? What? What's a Nikki Mirage? Minage? That's not a real word. Ugh, she's terrible. Is Breakeven still on the radio? It used to play all. The. Time. Before, y'know. This whole ordeal. God, all the music on these stations is terrible- where's the Black Eyed Peas? I swear,-"

"I'll kill 'im if he tries to touch the radio." Crowley grumbled.

Dean sighed as Sam chatted away in the background. "You wanted to take him to dinner."

They tried focusing on the music as Sam continued, moving on to topics and places relevant to Nevada, when a police car happened to flash its lights and snap on its siren in front of them.

Sam's eyes went wide.

He dove to the floor of the car clutching his knees with a retched breath as Dean whipped around to see what was wrong. The older man glanced back to the road, swerving to avoid an oncoming car as Crowley shouted at him to pull over.

The dark brunette slipped into the backseat, staring at the boy crouched on the floorboard. "What's your problem, pipsqueak?"

The boy didn't respond, hands clutching the back of his head-

_Sirens rang out in the background as Sam sat, locked in the basement again._

_Mr. Lehne talked cheerfully to the cop upstairs, disconcerting their thoughts about a boy being held captive. He laughed, probably at some accusation as he led them around the base floor- hell, he'd probably even offered them coffee, the smug bastard. One of the officers shouted from the doorway about a domestic abuse case, and the remaining (what he'd assumed were) two officers followed, exchanging farewells as they left._

_Samuel heard the front door close._

_And he sure as hell heard the heavy footsteps making their way to the basement._

_As the door screeched open, Azazel walked in almost silently. "Where'd you get the phone, Sammy?"_

_He didn't respond, refusing to meet the man's eyes._

_"Where'd,-" he grabbed something off his fucking table, "you get,-" he held it up, and Sam let out a small sound at the sight of the metal fire poker, "the phone?"_

_"I-I didn't call anyone." Sam stuttered, eyes flickering from the poker to Azazel's face._

_"That's not what I asked."_

_Sam flinched as the cold metal was held against his skin, just beside his left hip. "I didn't have a phone. It wasn't me, I swear, I've been down here all day."_

_He screamed as the poker broke skin, sinking into flesh and muscle._

_"You're a little liar." Azazel tilted his head with a sigh, unfazed. "You're a little," the prod was pulled out, "fucking," raised over Sam's left shoulder, "liar."_

_It was brought down with astounding force._

_"STOP IT!-"_ Sam shouted, wrenching his shoulder back and slamming into the car door.

His wide eyes snapped to see Crowley, with a busted lip and his hand outstretched just to where he was able to hold onto Sam's shoulder. Dean was leaning over from the drivers seat, watching the pair intently.

Crowley couched slightly, pulling his hand back. "Are you alright, love?"

Sam glanced around, remembering he was sitting in the back seat of the impala. He took a deep breath and looked back at the man. "'Love?' Who calls a teenage boy 'love?'"

Crowley rolled his eyes and wiped his lip. Dean snorted, shaking his head. "He's fine."

Sam looked out the window, seeing nothing but fields. "Weren't we just in the city?"

"Yes," Crowley began, "But Dean couldn't pull over there. So, he had to drive at nearly double the speed limit to get us into the middle of nowhere in five minutes flat."

"You weren't bleeding when we got into the car."

"Yeah, that was your work," Dean eyed him through the rear-view mirror. "Crowley hopped back there when it started. He was talking to you the whole time. You snapped out of it- and I mean, you literally snapped- and damn near broke his face when he grabbed your shoulder."

Sam glanced at the eldest. "... Sorry about that."

"It's alright." he smirked. "Just try not to do it again, or I'll hit back."

"He'll fucking do it, too." Dean muttered, starting the engine again and turning around. "Let's get some food without having an aneurysm, cool?"

Sam smiled and nodded, pretending he didn't notice that Crowley stayed in the back seat with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Dani and AmySPNfic for their comments and kudos.~


End file.
